Heavy and Spy: A Short
by Doktor Al Meringue
Summary: Medic has taken a leave and left Spy in charge. A little short with Heavy and Spy. Pointless and just for giggles.


"Go away, slender man!"

The Russian swatted the advancing Spy away with one large, lazy swipe of his gargantuan arms, the motion of which could have easily sent a concussion to the unwary attacker. Spy, used to such treatment, stepped back and expertly avoided the tips of those sausage like fingers by mere millimeters. The motion brought his arm back to his large barrel chest and curled in. Hunched over with a scowl that challenged the gaze of the most hardened of criminals, the Heavy was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

Then again, most injured animals were. But the Spy was there to help, not harm: getting this through his thick skull proved more and more difficult each time. "We have gone zhrough zis too many times to count. Why can you not accept my help?"

A snarl bellowed in his chest. "I do not require help from tiny men when I can do on my own." As the Spy attempted to reach into the cavern that was his abdomen, he began to speak in soothing tones.

"_Mon ami_, let me **_in_**, _je t'en prie_. Ze Medic asked me to take care of you while on leave, and I cannot do such when you are being stubborn like zis!"

Without their Medic, their team was in shambles. He'd gotten sick. The stupid German hadn't been watching what he was doing, and cut himself on the rusted shrapnel that was the result of some sort of explosion from eons ago on that same field. It became difficult to swallow; a fever consumed him. Sensing some sort of neurological peril without the observation of another doctor-type, he'd gotten permission from the Administrator to leave temporarily to sort things out. The replacement was lost on the first day. Unwilling to spend even more money on such an ungrateful team (for who would dare to lose their doctor so quickly without remorse?) she gave the sick Medic license to choose whomever he saw fit.

Of course, it had to be that immensely under-qualified Frenchman. Not that lazy Texan or Aussie; no, Spy, but only because the Texan and Aussie _were_ so lazy and nothing could be done with them. It seemed everyone got hurt on purpose while he was away. And with Spy being the one he trusted - meaning less likely to disembowel him if something were to go drastically wrong - the man whose job it was to stay in the shadows, it made his job a little difficult. Hard to execute successful back-stabs when Scout followed him around like a lost little puppy, whining about a mysterious pain in his leg.

However, Spy had been given special orders to take care of their Heavy. Medic had developed a fondness for that lovable Russian, even going so far as to favor him on the battlefield: he had to make sure their mobile tank was fueled and fine before attending to the Soldier whose organs were splayed out on the ground like a prostitute's legs. And if something were to happen, Spy would never hear the end of it. Or likely be alive. Whenever something should go wrong with him - which turned out to be much too often - the Heavy's call for his beloved Medic would ring out across the battlefield. Each and every time he was just as disappointed to see Spy. He absolutely refused to let that frog eating bastard touch him with hands that had fallen so many men.

As he didn't know his own endurance and because of the harsh environment of Russia, the Heavy often didn't realize how extensive his injuries were until the severity of them was brought to his attention by Spy. Spy often proceeded to panic, for he had only the most basic of medical training, generally just bullet wounds.

Not un-detonated rockets embedded in the strangely equal combination of fat and muscle that Heavy idly scratched at as if it were a simple small nuisance.

The way Ivan had curled into himself, hissing like a cat, Spy began to think something worse than the process of removing something that could have easily blown them into a thousand gibs lay ahead of him. The master of appearances had begun to falter. The shell that was his confident exterior shattered away, revealing the worried, frantic Frenchman beneath.

He lurched forward and touched the man's rippling bicep. The Heavy froze, turned one small, blue eye to the other in disbelief. "Now, _s'il vous plaît_-"

"**_NO_**!"

Ivan's arm swung and connected with Spy. Stupid enough to let his guard down, he took the hit at full force. "_Merde_," he gasped as he picked himself up off of the ground. His torso was now _pain_, no longer organs and limbs, but he still couldn't let the Medic down. Or a torso would be all that _would _be left when he returned. "_You bumbling imbecile! _I 'ave tried, and tried, and _mon **dieu** _'ave I tried, and yet you still will not let me_ touch you! _I am _sick _of you!" He spit at the Russian's feet. "Live wiz your injury! I am _zrough_! I no longer care if your German _swine _disembowels me!"

Spy shuffled out of the room, doubled over in lingering pain, oblivious to the reaction he'd brought out of the Heavy. The Engineer passed Spy's peripheral vision as he hobbled his way down the hall. "You alright there, partner?" The Engineer couldn't help but comment while he passed, lifting his hat a little as he scratched his bald head.

"Do I _look _alright? _Merde_," Spy suddenly groaned, clutching his stomach. Words hurt. Words hurt a lot. He dismissed the confused Engineer with a wave and a scoff, continuing his journey until, finally, the destination of his comfortable bed in his comfortable room was reached.

With all of the geriatric speed as someone hunched over in pain might have, Spy removed his jacket and tie, and lay down on his bed. Carefully, however, as uncurling from the semi-fetal position proved to be non-too-pleasant. 'Ungrateful Russian. That man would not have survived this long if it were not for me,' he thought, gingerly turning over on his side with a frown. 'Fritz surely must have had the same problems, at least in the beginning. Is it how I portray myself? What does that German have that I do not that calms such a foul beast? Other than a likeness for disgusting food.'

Spy gradually fell into a light sleep. He'd be likened to a cat: never fully sleeping, only taking sporadic naps in which he was always fully aware. It came as no surprise to hear the light knocking at his door, for he'd heard the footsteps preceding it. "_Qui est là_?"

"It... is me. May I come in?"

The Russian accent, however, was an eyebrow raiser. Such light steps for such a heavy man. "_Oui_... yes, I suppose." The door opened just as Spy sat up, a big bald head shoving its way through a small crack in the door. Ivan smiled just a little when he caught sigh of Spy, though it was quickly replaced by a thin line. He let himself in, ducking under the door frame, then shut the door softly behind him.

Spy noted that a plate was in his hand, a 'Sandvich' placed precariously on it. When questioned if that was the Heavy's lunch, he shook his head. "No. Is for Spy. I made it with my own hands." He handed the plate to Spy, who took it graciously with a nod. And even took a bite. A small one (it certainly wasn't gourmet). The Heavy mulled over sitting on the bed with Spy and sitting in his desk chair.

The chair certainly not built for a man of his girth creaked under his weight. "I am not good at apologies, for they are not often administered in Russia. We toast, but do not say we are sorry. A bottle of vodka is good enough." He chuckled a little. "It is a joke. I do not have good vodka on me anyways. Very difficult to get outside of homeland. I am sorry, Comrade Spy. Will you accept my apologies?"

It would be difficult to not do so, thought the Frenchman with a small smile. "I shall, _camarade_. Zank you for coming. However, I am curious, tell me: what was it zat you would not let me look at?" The Heavy frowned. His gargantuan hand moved to his shirt, and up came the fabric. "_Mon dieu!__ What 'ave you done to yourself?_" Running down from the middle of his breastbone to just the top of his navel was a laceration so large and deep that past the congealed blood and fat, Spy could almost see his innards. Pieces of shrapnel were embedded in various areas, flesh surrounding it severely scorched. That wasn't what caused such a reaction. A horrible attempt at stitching it up linked pieces of flesh that didn't go with pieces of flesh, and he was fairly sure that there might have been an organ or two caught up in the suture mess. Only a small amount of it had been patched up decently, mostly just near his breastbone. The Frenchman's jaw dropped open. "Why are you not dead yet! 'ow come you did not come to me?"

The Heavy shrugged, unresponsive as Spy gingerly examined the injured areas. "You were busy. I did not want to distract. I thought I could do the job myself, but, eh, did not come out well. Do not worry, I have had worse." The words were uttered so dismissively that Spy nearly fainted. "I did not want you to see because was very painful. Is not so much now. Engineer helped and found medicine."

"What in ze world am I supposed to _do _about zis! Medic will grind me up and put me in a sausage when he sees you!"

"Calm down, leetle man!" Ivan placed his hand on Spy's panicking shoulder. "I will tell him what happened. Will make sure he does not harm you in any way."

"I can nearly see your _liver! Right zere!_"

The Heavy shook his head and removed Spy's probing hands, chuckling. "Like I said, I have had worse. Leave it be for now. Come, we will go for drink, steady your nerves." He put his arm around him, carefully guiding him out of his room.

Spy couldn't stop shaking.

"Are you alright, Spy? You are pale. You look like you need a doktor."

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah I'm alive. :  
>Scout story will be out in a short time. Promise. <strong>


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